


One (The To All The Girls I've Ever Loved Remix)

by Medie



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: F/F, Femslash, Remix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-02
Updated: 2011-05-02
Packaged: 2017-10-18 21:30:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/193496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Medie/pseuds/Medie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is the Illyrian way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One (The To All The Girls I've Ever Loved Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [igrockspock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/igrockspock/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Red Lipstick](https://archiveofourown.org/works/41041) by [igrockspock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/igrockspock/pseuds/igrockspock). 



> my thanks to my lovely betas

She is alone.

Schooled by government tutors in a sprawling facility near the tip of the southern continent, One spends her days in rarefied company—her own. For her own good, she's told in firm rebuke, as the companionship of her lessers would do little to stimulate her intellect. It will take time for appropriate agemates to be selected. Her own solitary presence a direct result of her overwhelming success.

On Illyria such advancement of the person is the primary concern and One learns to accept it. She passes her days with lessons of body and mind, letting them fill her focus and telling herself she won't miss the absence of others. She learns and progresses, amazing her Illyrian and alien tutors alike and learns to feel satisfaction in the accomplishment.

All the while burying the wish for more.

For all her secret, forbidden wishes, the adjustment is difficult when the others do actually come. The enclave is a small one, as they all are, meant to hold only ten at a time. In short order, she goes from its only inhabitant to the first of ten. The ten brightest minds of her generation and, of them all, she shines the brightest.

Amazing, then, how quickly and thoroughly it becomes meaningless when Three, a tiny redhead with green eyes the colour of the Western sea knocks at her door to say hello.

*

One wakes to the warmth of a body pressed against hers. Najara. The night comes back in a rush, bringing with it the soft cry of Najara's voice filling the air, the way she'd fisted the sheets in her hands and tightened around One's fingers and then gone boneless beneath her lips.

If the memory isn't enough to evoke the desire for more, then the soft, sleepy whisper of her name seals it. One shifts, the sheets rustling with the movement, pulling Najara closer until she's tucked beneath her chin.

"Good morning," she says, thumb brushing the soft red of a bite on Najara's shoulder. She's rewarded with a full body shiver and Najara's lips teasing against her throat.

Najara's answer is a muffled mumble of Bajoran against her skin. One's command of the language is iffy at best and she doesn't catch all, but she parses out enough to laugh and reply, "If you said what I think, then yes, most certainly."

"Good," Najara says, moving just far enough that she can look One in the eye, "because I decided we'll be staying in this bed for the next solar year at least." She leers playfully. It should be silly, but her hair is mussed from One's hands, her body marked with the memories of their night together, and One is wet from the sight of her.

"Starfleet may have objections to your plan," One says, fingertips tracing the silky soft swell of Najara's right breast, thumb rubbing the nipple to life and eliciting a groan of pleasure from them both, "but I have none whatsoever."

*

They are barely out of girlhood, bodies caught between child and woman, and yet they understand. One tastes the skin of Three's shoulder, teasing at it with her lips, and can only just hear the soft gasp of breath that is Three's response. This is forbidden, against their designs well and truly, but that slows them not in the least.

One rises to kiss Three again, pleased by the way her lips redden beneath the tender assault. Three giggles, though she makes no sound, and pulls One down yet again. This behaviour, their feelings, all of it can never be shared with any other for a myriad of reasons, but One cannot complain. She does not want to think of anyone seeing Three like this, to know the feeling of her fingers, strong and searching, pressing against her skin, and she will not.

They steal away together under the premise of a race, easily explaining away bright eyes and flushed cheeks, and hide in places no other knows to press together and love.

It is not unheard of, this pleasure and these feelings, but they are not the same. Nothing of their lives will be left to chance.

Not even the one they take into their arms.

"Don't," Three says, her voice a lazy murmur as she settles, body flushed with the way One has loved her. "Don't think of it now."

She curls into One's arms, tucking her head beneath One's chin, and holds tight.

One says nothing, just does the same. They know how this will end anyway.

*

The San Francisco night is bracing as they step out into it. The little alcohol that remains in One's system is quickly chased away by the salt of the air as they walk along the shore. Najara falls into step with her easily and with unspoken assent to their destination. Officers' Quarters.

It's that, as much as the way her dark hair moves with the breeze, that intoxicates One anew. She looks sidelong at Najara, body humming with the desire to trace the delicate lines of her face, palm the soft curves of her hips and, most of all, feel the sweat-slick slide of her skin beneath her.

Najara's hand steals out, fingers lacing with One's. "You're blushing."

One smiles, tugging her off balance. It's a little pull, just enough to bring Najara flush against her. She wraps her free arm about Najara and closes the distance between them to murmur, "No, I'm not."

Najara's breath catches, feathering over One's skin as she lets it go. "No?"

"It's an autonomic response to arousal," One explains. "Terrans have inferred blushing to mean embarrassment." She kisses Najara, slow and measured, testing as much as introducing. At least, that is her intent, but intent is lost in the second that Najara makes a soft noise. The kiss quickly deepens until One has backed her against a tree and their hands are tugging ineffectually at clothing.

Najara's cheeks are flushed red when One pulls back, taking in the moonlit sight of her with a smile. "Nothing," she says, punctuating her words with another soft kiss, "of my desire for you embarrasses me."

*

One knows. She can see the truth in the way Three moves. Feel it in the distance of her kiss.

"They have chosen for you," she says, closing her eyes.

Three's fingers entwine with hers, holding fast as she rests her forehead against One's. Her breath is stuttering, hot, and One knows that Three is crying. She knows that if she were to look, she would find Three's perfect, pale skin blotchy from her tears. "Yes."

"Who?"

Three's grip tightens to the point of pain. One ignores it. " _Please_ ," she says, begging.

One asks nothing further. There is nothing more to be asked. This is the Illyrian way. They are the brightest of their generation, nothing will be left to chance, no threads left to unravel; they are the pinnacle of their society, after all, there can be no mistakes.

Standing in the absence of Three's presence, One flexes her aching fingers and turns away.

No mistakes at all.

*

A single fingernail, painted a brilliant blue, traces the rim of her glass in a slow, lazy circle. One watches the movement with more attention than it requires, her imagination summoning the sensation of that nail recreating its motion on her skin.

She feels her breath catch and her body angles closer. The motion draws attention and a smile. Emboldened, One orders another drink and considers the situation.

"You're nervous." Najara's lips turn up with a small smile, emphasizing the delicate wrinkle of her nose. Her finger makes a return trip around her glass, the light sound audible to Number One's ears even amidst the sounds of the club. It's charming, but not nearly so much as Najara's embarrassed laugh. "So am I. I doubt this is what the Prophets had in mind for my journey to Starfleet."

With a smile of her own, Number One leans in. She lets herself enjoy the sight of Najara's smile and the way her tongue slips out to brush enticing red lips. She takes in every detail of the moment and commits them to memory, her designers making sure such perfect recall is easily achieved. She thinks of that and laughs, reaching out to brush a thumb along Najara's lower lip, marring the lipstick as she says, "I believe I know the feeling."

*

Some might think her escape shockingly easy, but One does not. There is little need to prevent flight, nobody runs from Illyria's gleaming shores.

Neither does she. One is not running.

She books passage to Betazed, but departs at Vulcan. There is a berth on a passenger liner headed to Earth waiting at Vulcana Regar.

What she'll do when she gets there, One does not know. She has ideas, options, but mostly she is content to be surprised.

It will be a new experience. If, at times, she catches sight of coppery hair gleaming beneath the Terran sun and her throat tightens with regret, she will count it as the price to be paid. No choice is without cost, least of all this one.

She'll pay it gladly.

*

One catches sight of her at the bar. There is nothing about her familiar. It has been years since anyone reminded her of Three, this woman does not now, but it has also been years since she allowed herself this feeling.

Attraction thrums in her chest as she takes in long, lean legs, dark eyes, darker hair, and sleek red lips. That the woman is wearing Starfleet blues is an afterthought, but one that interests her all the more.

She should go. Starships do not prepare themselves and there is a crew to be considered, senior officers to be chosen, so much more to be done and planned. So much before she can return to the stars that are more her home than the enclave ever was.

And yet...

One watches the woman raise a glass, tipping it to her lips and taking a long, slow swallow. In doing so, she smiles.

Yes, _yet._


End file.
